


in so many lights

by candythongs



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Wings, sort of?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 09:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candythongs/pseuds/candythongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Welcome back to the BBC Radio 1 Breakfast Show.  It’s Monday, but before you start your weekly cry about going back to work, we’ve got a caller with quite the interesting story this morning.”  Nick turns to Matt.  “Have you heard about this one, Matt Fincham?  It’s all over Twitter.  A man with wings has been spotted flying around East London.  Like, properly flying, wings flapping about and everything.  What do you reckon?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	in so many lights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hmarie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hmarie/gifts).



> i'm convinced this fic has killed me, like actually annihilated me.
> 
> this is the first fic i've written in years, and it was ... a struggle, to say the least. there were a few people who were constantly helpful & supportive as i panicked, and they all deserve medals. would also like to extend an extra special thanks to my beta, who will remain unnamed for their own safety. 
> 
> uh, i don't know much about the breakfast show, have only listened to it a few times, so the characterisation is probably all off. bear with me? 
> 
> anyway, hmarie, i really hope you like it! i've bent the prompt slightly, but hopefully it's still alright. nick grimshaw is there, but there's no gryles, i promise!
> 
> title lyrics from james blake's 'to the last': _you compare yourself in so many lights / and i won't have you tell me it went wrong / all i see is what you've done_

“Right. Mister … Styles, is it? Thanks for coming by on such notice.”  The estate agent, a blonde woman in a burgundy suit, looks down at her clipboard and back up at Harry, a sharp smile on her face as she sticks her hand out in greeting.

“Yeah, that’s – er, you can just call me Harry?” he replies with a grin, shaking his hair out of his eyes and wiping his palms on his jeans quickly before reaching for her outstretched hand in some approximation of a handshake.  

“Of course, of course.  Harry.” She rummages around in her handbag, grin still in place, and pulls out a set of keys.  “Shall we have a look at the room, then?”

Like any young person trying to make a life for himself in London, Harry had realised long ago that finding a quaint, affordable studio flat in the charming period conversion of his dreams was about as likely as winning the lottery. After spending the past six months in a 12-person warehouse conversion in Manor House, he’d grown weary of the constant noise, of his clean washing disappearing, and of the strange and unfamiliar smell of a home that wasn’t his – not really.

He had known that Bethnal Green wasn’t renowned for being particularly nice – the measly wage he got for being a runner at Radio One couldn’t possibly pay for _nice_ – but if nothing else, it was convenient.  The advert on Spare Room had promised a _cosy three-bed flat share, just steps from Bethnal Green tube station!,_ which sounded – well, if not absolutely perfect, at least miles better than being constantly subjected to his flatmates’ affinity for generally shit drum and bass music.

“Right then, so obviously this is how you get into the building.” Charlotte holds up a blue key fob and taps it on the call box next to the door.  “Keyless entry, very secure,” she offers as the door clicks open.

“The flat is all the way up on the 13th floor – that’ll be the one on this side.” She pushes the button to call the lift and looks over at Harry. Her smile still hasn’t budged. “You’ll be sharing with two other lads in their early 20s, both of them are – “

She’s cut off by the arrival of the lift, the doors opening with a worrying jerk. Harry sees a security camera in the far corner of the lobby and gives it a little wave for good measure. Charlotte purses her lips. 

 

* * *

 

The clouds are very, very cold.

That’s all that he can remember thinking the first time he ended up here. He was twelve, he jumped off of a swing set, and he never hit the ground.

  

* * *

 

Being sober on a night bus is definitely one of Harry’s top-ten least favourite things.

Half four in the morning is entirely too early to be anywhere at all, but Harry is convinced that the N55 deserves the top spot.  He’s made a very comprehensive mental list, really, cleverly entitled _Absolute Worst Places to be at Half Four in the Morning,_ which is mostly comprised of various night buses, Fabric, and the 24-hour McDonald’s at Liverpool Street.  Incidentally, for many people, the three of those things are often related, but that’s neither here nor there.

Monday through Thursday mornings – that is to say, Sunday through Wednesday nights, really – aren’t bad on the altogether.  The buses aren’t crowded, and he’s usually able to sit on his own and spend the drive from Bethnal Green to the BBC by watching the city recover from the night before.

Friday mornings, on the other hand, are the reason why night buses will always take the top spot on his list of situational hates.  On Friday mornings, he’s honestly lucky if he makes it off the bus without smelling like piss, sick, stale beer, or a combination of the three. At the end of his first week at Radio One, a bride on her hen do had literally just leaned over and vomited all over his favourite boots.  He ended up having to throw them away in the work toilets and face Nick Grimshaw in a pair of mismatched socks that somehow still managed to reek of unholy alcohol sick. 

Working with Nick Grimshaw – “Oh god, please just call me Grimmy.  I may be old to you, but I’m not that old.” – as it turns out, is hilarious.  Not that this was necessarily a shock, but listening to it on the radio every morning and experiencing it first-hand are two very different things.  When Harry had first started at Radio One, they’d bonded over the fact that they were both Northern, and then Nick had asked Harry to fetch him a cup of tea, which.  Baby steps, really.

As Harry soon found out, however, Nick isn’t one to let things go, especially embarrassing things; on air, he only refers to Harry as Sick Sock Styles and variations thereof.  It’s a good job Nick talks for a living, Harry thinks, because that’s a tongue twister if he’s ever heard one. 

“If it isn’t my favourite underling.  Morning, Harry Styles,” Nick greets him as Harry walks into the lobby, tray in hand, delivering morning tea orders.  “And how are our socks today?”

“Er, they’re – well, they’ve got little bananas on them?” Harry replies, setting the tray aside, and leaning down to roll up his jeans. “And, like, some of the bananas are nice and yellow, and some of the bananas are green, like they’re not ripe yet?” he explains.  “Um, I got them off eBay, I think.  Like 50p or summat.” The Breakfast Show have started doing a Twitter feature on Harry’s socks.  Last week, he was sent three pairs, each with a different penis-themed pattern. He’s saving them for a special occasion. It’s all very exciting.

“Ah yes, covering the whole banana spectrum.  Good pair, that.  Love a good banana sock,” he says with an eyebrow wiggle and a wide grin, and Harry chokes on a laugh.

“No one wants to hear about your banana,” Matt Fincham interjects. Harry agrees.

“Mind out of the gutter, Fincham,” Nick counters, spinning back and forth in his chair.   “So Harold, what’s this I hear about you becoming an East London boy, hm?  Couldn’t hack it in the cold, hard north of London anymore?”

“Oh, yeah, I moved flat, like, last weekend?  Just Bethnal Green, nothing special, but –” he shuffles his feet and coughs into his hand to clear his throat. “I needed somewhere new, and I like it?”

“Do you? Go on, then – you’re not asking me, are you?”

“It’s – well, it’s in, like, a tower block? Um, my room’s on the top floor, which is brilliant, the view’s brilliant and I’ve this balcony –”

“Sounds brilliant,” Nick interjects with a laugh.

“Yeah, erm. Anyway. But the lift is, like – so there’s always some sort of, like, half-eaten food in it, but.” Harry furrows his brows before he continues.  “Uh, I’m sharing with two lads, and it’s … yeah, it’s quite good, I think? One of them is Irish? That’s Niall, we get on really well, he’s a great laugh.  Liam’s the other one, but he’s not in very much?  Because his girlfriend lives in some fancy flat in Primrose Hill or summat, but. Yeah, wicked so far, really,” he finishes lamely, bottom lip between his teeth. 

“A balcony, hey? That sounds well good, that.  You could get potted plants and things, make it nice and all.” Matt Fincham turns around to face Harry, cup of tea in hand.

Harry brightens.  “Yeah, It should be quite good for the summer.  I’d love to do that, I think? I used to garden a lot when I was little – with my mum, like.  And it was always really fun, so.  Should be nice, I reckon.” He’s grinning.

“Yes, yes, well done, Harry Styles, I’m very happy for you.  I’m sure you and your personal rain forest will live a long, happy life together.  Grow up and grow old and all that fond nonsense,” Nick says, tone slightly mocking. “I look forward to the Christmas card." 

Harry coughs. “Yeah, that’s – that’s the plan, really.” 

 

* * *

 

The lift is as old as the building itself; the buttons don’t light up properly, the mirror on one wall is covered in a layer of impenetrable grime, and the light on the ceiling casts everything in a sickly green hue somewhere between rigor mortis and acute nausea. There’s a half-eaten kebab in the far corner, someone’s chicken doner left to rot in a grave of polystyrene and burger sauce. Harry stares absently at it, thumbnail between his teeth, as he makes his ascent to the 13th floor.

When the doors open onto his floor, Harry sees a boy who looks to be around his age sitting against the wall in the back corner of the lobby, naked but for a pair of bright yellow y-fronts and a red beanie, legs curled up to his chest and heavily tattooed arms wrapped around his knees.

“Erm, hi, are you –” Harry realises that he’s still stood in the lift; he steps out into the lobby and clears his throat, the doors closing creakily behind him. “You alright, mate?”

The boy’s head pops up, and – fuck.  His hair is dark, a messy fringe hanging over his forehead beneath his red beanie, a light beard growing in on his face.  They lock eyes, and Harry feels himself being physically pulled forward, something inside him shifting at the sight.  The boy tilts his head slightly, curiously, before looking down at his knees, shaking his head, and sighing. 

“Yeah, cheers, just.  My flatmate’s a fucking prick, like.  We just moved in, and he thought it’d be a laugh to lock me out of the corridor in nothing but my pants and all.”  He lets out a dry huff of laughter and tilts his head back to the ceiling.

“Oh, that’s – have you tried buzzing anyone else?”  Harry asks, still stood in the middle of the lobby, fingers absently fondling his key ring.

“Mate, Do you really think the old woman in 134 is going to let in a strange man stood starkers on the other side of the door?” the boy replies, smiling a bit now.

“That’s … yeah, I probably wouldn’t either if I were her age, to be fair,” offers Harry with a shrug and a laugh, walking toward the corridor door and motioning for the boy to follow.  “Thankfully I’m not, though.  Come on, then.”

The boy gets up and stretches his arms toward the ceiling, and it’s not. It’s not like Harry’s _trying_ to look – he swears he’s not. But.  The boy’s torso is covered in tattoos, and it’s – well, it’s there, isn’t it?  A bit of script on his hipbone catch Harry’s eye, but the boy shifts before Harry’s able to read what it says.  He looks away quickly, turning his eyes toward the ceiling and feeling like he’s been caught out.

The door unlocks with a click, and Harry holds it open, letting the boy go in first. “What number are you, then? I’m Harry, by the way,” he offers. The boy’s back is substantially barer than his front, but Harry can see two raised crescents, perfectly symmetrical, hugging his shoulder blades.  He wonders absently whether they were a scar or a birthmark.

“I’m Zayn, and uh – I think it’s 138?”  He turns his head toward Harry as he walks. “Last one on the left, anyway.”

“Zayn,” Harry repeats deliberately, tasting the sounds as they leave his mouth. “Wicked, I’m in 136.  I think we share a balcony?”  Harry stops in front of his door and turns around, a wide grin growing on his face. “Do you, like – do you want to come through ours and, like – sneak in through the balcony and surprise your flatmate or summat?”

Zayn’s answering smile transforms his entire face into something bright, something even more beautiful, his brown eyes crinkling with mischief, and. Yeah, Harry’s fucked.  

 

* * *

 

Harry had just turned eight years old the first time he visited London with his mum. It was mid-February, and winter had long since settled on the city with a sharp bite, commuters walking hurriedly from place to place, hands in their pockets and scarves tied tightly around their necks, layered up like the Michelin man in a futile attempt to keep the chill at bay.

Piccadilly Circus stood out in the cold damp like a beacon, a brightly coloured centre of activity and noise and light.  Harry loved it.

He remembers his mum taking him into Ripley’s Believe it or Not, remembers staring at the different so-called oddities – taking photos standing next to the replicas of the world’s tallest man, the world’s shortest man; smiling in front of shrunken heads on strings; asking his mum if she’d make him dinosaur eggs for breakfast – it was his birthday, after all. 

His favourite part, though, had been the Super Room.  A collection of skeletons with abnormalities the likes of which Harry had only heard of in comic books, it was the most fantastical thing Harry had ever seen:  skeletons with wingspans the width of the entire wall, skeletons with tails and paws, with beaks and fins and hooves and spikes. 

He’d spent over an hour in that one room alone, just taking everything in. He meticulously studied every detail of each exhibit, each superhuman, each fossil, each artefact, and imagined a life where he could breathe underwater, where he could run as quickly as a horse, jump as high as a kangaroo, or fly as far as an eagle. 

“Are they real, mummy?” he’d asked, eyes wide with childish awe.

“Don’t believe everything you see, my sweet,” she had replied with a kind smile, taking his hand and leading the two of them out into the cold.

 

* * *

 

Zayn Malik is 21 years old, he’s from Bradford, has three sisters, and came to London to do art.  He loves comic books, and his favourite colour is red. 

These are all things that Harry learns through Niall, who is probably capable of making friends with a sea sponge. 

It’s not that Harry’s, like, consciously _avoiding_ their shared balcony, necessarily; it’s just that Zayn intimidates him. A bit.  More than a bit.  Every time Harry’s gone out to check on his plants, Zayn has been sitting at the other end of balcony, either smoking a cigarette, reading a book, or drawing in his sketchbook, and looking comfortably moody all the while.

Two days ago, Harry walked out to find Zayn actually sitting on the guard rail – _on_ the bloody guard rail _–_ and turned right back around before he nearly had a heart attack.  He’s worried sick that Zayn’s going to end up slipping and falling 13 storeys to his death while he, Harry, is too busy focussing on, like, watering his begonias in a conscious attempt _not_ to stare at Zayn’s face for too long lest it get weird, which. In all honesty, Harry figures the whole thing is probably weird already. 

His begonias, on the other hand, are doing incredibly well. 

“Just fucking talk to him, Haz!” he hears Niall shout as the front door swings closed behind him.  He’d told Harry that he was going on a date with a girl called Barbara, had warned him that he might bring her back to theirs afterward if all goes well.

Harry’s just put leftover tuna pasta bake in the oven for his tea when he sees Zayn take his perch on the guard rail in a grey vest and black jeans, lit cigarette in hand.  

 _Just fucking talk to him_.

Harry looks at the timer.  He’s got about 15 minutes until his food is ready – that’s plenty of time, really. He’ll probably end up awkwardly stammering through small talk and then coming right back in. Shamefully.  He fills up his watering can, takes a deep breath, and walks outside. 

Zayn is nowhere to be found, all of the lights off in his flat.  

 

* * *

 

A heat wave has taken London and turned her on its head. It’s nearly 35 degrees and humid as anything, the oppressive heat getting everyone out of their houses and sending them to the park, to the lido, to the pub – anywhere where they can catch a breeze, sit in the sunshine, and cool down.  

Making the decision to taking the Central Line home from work as opposed to the bus was not Harry’s finest hour, the lack of air con and tight press of bodies at rush hour making him go drowsy and light-headed.  His long, curly hair is plastered to his forehead, his cheeks, the back of his neck.

He remembers when he was little and he felt sick, his mum used to tell him to stare at a fixed point on the horizon, and don’t look at anything else.   He’s been staring at a red ribbon pinned to man’s suit jacket for five stops now, and it’s starting to blur, great black spots orbiting around the edges of his vision.  He pushes through the mesh of people by the door, unable to muster up anything more than a harshly muttered, “pardon me,” and stumbles off the train at Liverpool Street, hopes that making it above ground will help him feel less faint. 

It does. Harry takes a seat on the steps outside the station, closes his eyes, and breathes.  After a few moments, he feels immeasurably better, good enough to keep making his way home. He decides to walk the rest of the way in lieu of taking the bus; Liverpool Street is only one stop away, maybe a half-hour walk, and he’s been so caught up between work and home recently that he hasn’t really had the chance to spend much time on his own.

The sun is shining bright and hot on the city below, a light breeze cutting through the heat, as Harry makes his way down Shoreditch High Street. The bars are filled with people having drinks after work, their sleeves rolled up, ties and suit jackets thrown over the backs of chairs as they unwind from their day. 

It’s nice, Harry thinks, seeing everyone enjoying themselves, enjoying the sunshine. This summer has been a nice break from the rain that usually plagues London.  Also, his plants are absolutely eating it up.  He’s never seen anything grow so quickly, so. He’ll take feeling a bit light-headed, really, if it means his little balcony garden thrives. Pain is only temporary. Or something.  

He’s just turned up Hackney Road when he sees it:  a massive mural spanning the entire side of a strip club. Giant wings rendered in every colour imaginable sprout from the silhouette of a man set against a backdrop of the night sky.  _NOT YOUR ICARUS_ fills the space between the two wings, loud and red, the paint dripping down from the script onto the man below.

 

* * *

 

“Fancy a pint, then?  The Birdcage?”  Niall’s voice carries from the corridor into the bathroom, where Harry’s currently brushing his teeth. 

“Mmmph,” he calls back.

“Taking that as a yes, then.  I’m gonna go ahead and head over – Liam and Sophia are already there.”

Harry spits his toothpaste out and cups his hands underneath the tap, letting them fill up with water.  “Yeah mate, sounds good.  I’ll meet you there in half an hour?”  He puts his hands to his mouth, swills the water around to rinse his teeth.

“Sick, bro, see you soon.  And I’ve invited Zayn!" 

“What, you can’t just –” Harry yells indignantly, mouthful of water dribbling wetly down his chin and onto his shirt. Niall’s already out the door. Figures, really.

 _Can’t wear this then,_ Harry thinks as he looks down on his now-soaked t-shirt. He makes his way down the corridor to his room, throwing open his wardrobe doors and praying for a miracle. It’s laundry day, and all of his favourite things are currently strewn about the room, hung over bedposts and radiators.  He’ll have to work with what he’s got, he reckons.

 

As it turns out, what he’s got is not very much at all. Mostly horribly oversized t-shirts he’s been given from work, really, and a few button-downs he hasn’t worn in ages collecting dust at the back of his wardrobe.  He pulls one of them off of the hanger, a sheer black shirt that Nick had dared him to buy last month, and stares at it for a bit, contemplating. It’s probably too warm for a shirt, the summer lasting far longer than anyone had anticipated, but if nothing else, sweating a bit is far better than waltzing up to the pub in a BBC charity top.

He puts on the top and decides to leave the top few buttons undone to make sure he looks, you know, young and fancy free. Or something.  He takes a look in the mirror, and yeah – much better than a Children in Need t-shirt. 

 

The walk to the Birdcage is short, less than ten minutes, and he spends the entire time in a state of minor panic.   

It’s been three months, and Harry has spoken to Zayn a grand total of six times since he found him mostly naked outside the lift, awkward waves and pleasantries on the balcony not withstanding. It’s been – well, it’s been fine, realistically speaking, but.  Harry’s still not sure how to act around Zayn – something about the boy seems off somehow.  He’s quiet but candid, offers information freely but tends to cut conversations quite short. As someone who could spend half an hour talking about his tea, Harry’s perplexed. 

It’s not just that, though.  The conversations they _have_ had, although short, have been great, firmly solidifying Harry’s infatuation.  Harry’s come to find out that Zayn’s not only inhumanly attractive, but intelligent as well, something which Harry honestly just finds unfair.  

Well, then.  He’ll just have to do his best to woo him, won’t he? 

 

As he gets nearer, he can tell that the pub is packed, groups of friends stood outside with cigarettes and pints, raised voices and laughter audible from metres away.  He makes it inside and spots Niall, who has somehow managed to score the two sofas in the corner.  There’s a middle-aged woman in a feather boa singing Journey on the karaoke stage, and Harry thinks that he’ll probably need a fair amount of alcohol to make it through the evening.  

 

“Haz!  Was wonderin’ when you’d get here,” Niall says with a grin after Harry finally squeezes through the throng of people and makes his way to the sofas. Niall’s squeezed at the end of the sofa with Liam and Sophia whispering next to him, Zayn and his flatmate, a boy called Louis who Harry’s only met in passing, on the sofa across from them and laughing at something. 

“Alright, lads? And, er, Sophia,” Harry greets everyone with a smile and runs a hand through his hair nervously.  “I’m just gonna grab a drink, any of you lot need anything?” He nods his head toward the bar as he speaks, pulls his cardholder out of his pocket.  

Zayn’s head snaps up at that, his eyes trailing from Harry’s face down his body.  “I’m running low, might come along,” he replies with a grin, pushing himself up and off of the sofa. 

“Easy, mate,” Louis interjects, his tone mocking.

Zayn smacks him around the back of his head. “Fuck off,” he replies easily.   “Right then,” he says, swinging his arm around Harry’s shoulders.  “Shall we?”

 

The night, as it turns out, is pretty fucking good on the altogether, Harry thinks.  He’s four gin and tonics in, and Zayn’s hand made its way onto his thigh two drinks ago, is creeping slowly higher as the night goes on.  

“Think I fancy a fag, any of you lads care to join?” Zayn asks, giving Harry’s thigh a squeeze as he stands up. 

“Nah, mate, I’m getting another pint,” Niall replies.

“Haz?”  Zayn looks down at Harry, holds out a hand.  His head snaps up, and he thinks, _yes._ Thinks, _I’d probably follow you anywhere right now,_ which. Probably that is the alcohol speaking, but.  

“Me,” Harry replies gleefully, grabbing Zayn’s proffered hand and pulling himself up. 

He keeps hold of Zayn’s hand as they weave their way through the crowd of people, only lets go once they’re outside, so Zayn can fish his cigarettes out of his back pocket.  “I’m having fun,” he says, eyes bright, biting his bottom lip with a grin.

Zayn laughs, a bright, happy thing, and Harry feels unsteady on his feet. 

“Yeah?  Me too,” he replies.  “C’mere,” he says, snaking a hand around Harry’s waist and pulling him closer.  

Harry nuzzles into him gratefully, lets his head rest on Zayn’s shoulder.  Zayn takes a drag of the cigarette, exhales a rich cloud of smoke, and Harry makes a face. “Smelly,” he says, his brows drawn together. 

Harry can’t see it, but he can feel Zayn’s smile against his hair. 

“Do you think we can convince Nialler to do karaoke?” Harry slurs, eyes shut.

“Reckon he’d do a sick Bieber, wouldn’t he?” Zayn replies with a laugh.

“Mmm,”  Harry hums in response.  He’s drunk. He’s drunk, and Zayn’s so close, and Harry just -- he wants.  He wants so much. He takes his head off of Zayn’s shoulder and leans in to whisper in his ear, the alcohol having given him a hearty dose of courage.  “Come back to mine?”

Zayn tosses his cigarette on the ground and grabs Harry’s hand.  

 

* * *

 

The first time it happens, he flies into a tree.  

When he gets home, he has tears in his eyes, and his mum and dad are standing at the door, twin looks of worry on their faces.  His mum grabs him gently by the shoulder and pulls him close, wraps her arms around him as he buries his face in her chest.  

“My beautiful boy,” she murmurs, running her hand soothingly up and down his back. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back to the BBC Radio 1 Breakfast Show.  It’s Monday, but before you start your weekly cry about going back to work, we’ve got a caller with quite the interesting story this morning.” Nick turns to Matt. “Have you heard about this one, Matt Fincham? It’s all over Twitter. A man with wings has been spotted flying around East London.  Like, properly flying, wings flapping about and everything.  What do you reckon?”  

“You know what, I have heard about that,” Matt replies.  “That Icarus bloke.  Men with wings, though?  Bit of a dodgy concept, I think.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Nick agrees.  “Was chatting to Socks earlier, and he disagrees.  He reckons it could be real, like those skeletons at Ripley’s Believe it or Not. Wildly idealistic, that boy. Makes a very good cup of tea, though.”

 _“_ Heeeeeeyyyyy,” Harry protests from the other side of the glass. 

Nick dismisses him with a wave before continuing: “Let’s hear from our caller, shall we? We’ve got Maura here. Hi, Maura!  Tell us what you saw, because I, for one, am still unconvinced.”

“Hiya Grimmy,” Maura starts.  “No, I didn’t believe it either.  Bit of a tough cookie, me. Not very gullible usually. That’s why I don’t believe in God, like. But anyway, last night. I dunno, it was maybe half past midnight?  I was sat at my dining room table having a fag – I live in Whitechapel, by the by – and I see this strange creature coming toward my window.  I live on the 11th floor, mind you, so this wasn’t just some man in fancy dress.  Anyway, so here I was, I’d gone closer to the window because I didn’t believe what I’d seen, when it – the winged man – just sort of swooped down, nearly level with me. Maybe he was like three or four metres away?  Dunno, I’m not much for distances myself.  But it was a man, it was definitely a man, and I won’t listen to anyone who tries to tell me I’m wrong.  He was wearing a vest and jogging bottoms, for Christ’s sake, just like, proper hovering in the air.   Anyway, so his wings were, like – probably about twice as wide as he was tall? Maybe more. He had the loveliest wings, black and feathery like a raven’s.  I think he didn’t realise I was in, which is why he came so close – my lights were out, after all.  But he was near enough to spot me.  He looked into the window and saw me looking at him, like, I could see it right there that he knew I’d seen him.  From where I was stood he looked well fit, to be honest.  Like, dark hair, dark features and these beautiful black wings.  We stared at each other for a moment, and then he just … well, he flew away, didn’t he?  Back to wherever men with wings live.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s the story behind these, then?” 

They’ve been seeing each other for a little over a month, and there are still so many things that Harry is unsure of.  When they’re together, it’s great.  The sex is brilliant, Zayn’s brilliant.  Harry has no idea what goes on when they’re apart, though; he’ll tell Harry everything about the things and people he loves, but Zayn says nothing about what he does when he isn’t with Harry, gives monosyllabic answers before quickly changing the subject.  

The two of them are in bed, and Harry’s tracing patterns across Zayn’s bare back, running his fingers over the two raised crescents at his shoulder blades.   Zayn rolls over, grabs Harry’s hands and laces their fingers together.

“I’ve had ‘em since I was born,” he replies, leaning up and pressing his lips to Harry’s. 

“Mmmm,” Harry hums into his mouth.  “I like them,” he says, punctuating his words with a soft kiss.  “Must’ve been fun explaining those in the changing rooms, hmm?” he says, pulling back. 

Zayn doesn’t respond, just leans in and kisses Harry deeply.

 

* * *

 

Whenever he leaves it too long, his body physically rebels. 

His back feels itchy and full, the area between his shoulder blades going raw and red and angry.   Yesterday, he felt a feather escaping of its own accord, and he had to run into the toilet to try to sort himself out. 

He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to hold it in.  Keeping secrets is a painful business. 

 

* * *

 

It’s not quite autumn, not yet, but the summer sun has started to go soft around the edges, the days growing shorter and the nights getting cooler as the weeks tick by.  London’s nice like this, Harry thinks, the little warmth remaining made precious by the indeterminate amount of days he’s got left to enjoy it.  Today is one of those days. 

It’s half seven in the morning, he’s got to be at the BBC at half five the next day, and for some ungodly reason, he’d drunkenly told Niall that he’d do the Sunday markets with him.

He’s laying in bed with the headache of what feels like an entire nation and wondering why friendship doesn’t allow for sick days, when Niall, full of more energy than is frankly necessary or appropriate for half seven on a Sunday morning, strolls into his bedroom.  He’s got a cup of tea in each hand, and he’s whistling, the absolute wanker.  

“Alright, ye lazy cunt, up y’ get,” Niall exclaims, setting the two mugs of tea down unceremoniously on Harry’s side table before making his way toward the window.  He pulls open the curtains with a dramatic flourish, flooding the room with sunlight and single-handedly destroying any illusions Harry might have been harbouring about the possibility of nursing his hangover in his own bed.

 _This is really very rude,_ Harry thinks. 

He whines at the light and lets out a series of unintelligible noises into his pillow, most of which mean, _Please can you go away and let me die in peace,_ and also, _Justin Bieber isn’t made to be whistled, especially not this early in the morning._

“Mmmph,” ‘urts,” he croaks, his throat hoarse and his voice husky from disuse.  He forces himself to sit up and rubs at his face roughly, wondering not for the first time how he continues to get himself into these situations. 

“Go on, then, drink up,” Niall replies with a grin, plopping himself down directly next to Harry on the bed and shoving the tea into his hands.

Harry closes his eyes and gingerly takes a sip, the heat flowing into his body like liquid strength, and mumbles something which he hopes resembles, “Milk?” and not, “I want to die.”

“Me and Li found enough in coppers in the sofa last night to buy some,” Niall replies, which. 

“You found £2 in –” Harry’s voice sounds gravelly, thick, and he clears his throat before continuing.  “You found £2 in coppers?” he gets out, his tone incredulous even around a yawn. It’s the first intelligible thing that’s managed to make its way out of his mouth all morning. “In our sofa?” Harry draws his knees up so he’s sitting cross-legged, his back against the wall and his head on Niall’s shoulder.  

“Dropped me phone down the back side of it last night, didn’t I?” Niall lets out a laugh, loud and boisterous and comfortable, and Harry rolls his eyes and shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“Was all sorts down there when we tipped it over,” Niall continues. “Found a movie ticket for Braveheart. A Freddo’s wrapper, back when they used to be 2p.  Proper antique shite. Shame you disappeared off doing fuck knows what, you’d’ve loved it.”  Harry furrows his brows and shuffles further down the bed, stretches his legs out. He’s blacked out from drink plenty of times, but he’s always had someone else to debrief him in the morning. But last night feels like a blank spot, like the memories have been stolen from him somehow.  

“Oh yeah, budge up –” Niall gently shrugs Harry off, setting his tea on the side table, before lifting his hips off the bed and patting his pockets down, presumably in search of something.  He fumbles around for a bit, and Harry finds himself letting out a snort. Finally, Niall pulls out a small cardboard box and tosses it at Harry’s chest.  “Enough to get your sorry arse some paracetamol, as well.”

Harry groans around his mouthful of tea, swallowing audibly.  “You are a prince, Niall Horan,” he replies, popping three small pills out of their case, tossing them in his mouth, and washing them down with a long swallow.  “Milk in our tea and pills for our pains.  Living in the lap of luxury, we are.”

Niall scoffs, but Harry can tell he’s pleased.  “Yeah, mate.  Don’t get too comfortable, Charlotte’s been ringing all week about the rent.”  His tone is exasperated, but his smile is fond. Harry returns his head to its resting place on Niall’s shoulder.

“Wait, did you –” He turns his head so he’s facing Niall, an accusatory look in his eye. “Have you already to the shop this morning?  What time did you wake up? Did you even sleep?”

“Early bird gets the worm, my lad,” Niall replies with a twinkle in his eye, giving Harry’s cheek a light slap. “Nah, I woke up early to make sure you weren’t, like, chopped up in the canal or summat?”

 “Heeeeyyyy,” Harry protests lazily, eyes closing again.

“You were proper gone last night, Haz.  Pissed as hell, shoutin’ something about going on the roof or some bollocks. Thought we’d find you up there, but it was like you’d just disappeared.”  Niall sips his tea, shaking his head.  “Couldn’t figure out how you managed to get down either, the bleedin’ door nearly closed and locked us out before Liam caught the fucker.” 

The roof. Okay, Harry vaguely remembers the roof. Potentially.  Maybe.  Also maybe not. And there was wind.  He remembers the wind, but everything else feels fuzzy, nothing coming into proper focus, and his headache hasn’t disappeared, and it’s – well, he’s in his bed now, isn’t he, so it all worked out in the end.  He’ll deal with it later. 

“Fuck, Nialler, I’m sorry,” he sighs.

Niall’s fingers are tracing idle patterns on Harry’s scalp, the repetitive motions distracting him from the pulsing ache behind his eyes, and Harry leans into them, slowly sipping his tea as he tries to gather his thoughts. He tilts his head back and makes a quiet humming noise.

“Right then,” Niall breaks the silence after a few moments.  “Get your tiny arse out of bed.  We’re leaving at quarter past, I could absolutely murder a fry-up.”   He punctuates his sentence with a light smack to the back of Harry’s head as he saunters – actually _saunters_ , the bastard – into the corridor.  “And no disappearing acts this time, either, ya bastard, I worried meself sick,” he calls out over his shoulder. 

Harry shakes his head lightly to clear it, which – bad idea.  The small reprieve he’d felt from Niall’s fingers on his scalp disappears immediately, and his headache comes rushing back, a dull throbbing behind settling in behind his eyes.  If he hadn’t taken Biology in school, he’d be convinced his brain was turning to liquefied mush and threatening to leak out his ears.  

He lets out a long sigh and sets his empty mug down on the side table. Standing up slowly, and praying the paracetamol kicks in soon, he remembers. 

 Zayn.

 

* * *

 

_Where are you??? xxx_

_Z, I’m worried .xx_

_PLEASE answer your phone, we need to talk._

_I’m still here, I promise .xxxxxxxx_

_Zayn_

He shakes his head, shuts off his phone, and unfurls his wings.

* * *

 

If the whole situation didn’t keep replaying in Harry’s brain like a broken record, he’d think it had just been a dream.   

They’d been on the roof, just the two of them, drunk and happy, kissing until they were breathless.   Harry was standing too close to the edge, the combination of Zayn’s presence and the alcohol making him feel invincible, like he could take off at any moment.

He remembers seeing something in the distance – God, he can’t even remember what it was, why it was so important – and yelling for Zayn to come look. In his haste to turn around he slipped and fell. 

He remembers the panic that erupted, sharp and paralysing, as he started to fall down, down, down.  He remembers knowing, being absolutely sure, that this was the end.  Remembers being glad that at least he’d spent his last night happy, with someone he loves.

Love.

That was a new one, wasn’t it?  Realising as he fell to his death that he was in love with Zayn.  He’d shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for impact, when he felt someone grabbing him by the waist.  He opened his eyes to see Zayn’s face, panic written clearly on his features.  

His first thought was one of panic – surely Zayn wouldn’t just jump after him? Surely he’s smarter than that? And then he realised that he really ought to have hit the ground by now.  As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realised that the two of them were rising instead of falling, that a pair of wings was propelling them upward. He was too numb to do anything but hold on, fisting his hands tightly in Zayn’s t-shirt and burying his face in his neck. 

After a moment, Harry realised that they had stopped, that they had ended up on his balcony.  

Zayn gently untangled Harry’s hands from his t-shirt, held onto them lightly as he stepped back.  His features were blank as he leant in and pressed a light kiss to Harry’s lips, before dropping his hands and taking off.

 It was. Well, it was a lot, wasn’t it? Realising your boyfriend could fly. Looking back, Harry can see all of the signs clearly, wonders how he hadn’t put the pieces together earlier. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though, is there?  Zayn hasn’t contacted him in over a month.

He feels like he’s tried everything he knows how.  Every time he calls, Zayn’s phone goes straight to voicemail. He’s gone knocking on 138 nearly every day, but Louis’ answer is always the same:  “Nothing, mate.  Give him time.” 

He’s not sure how much he has left to give, really. 

 

* * *

 

Winter seems to spring up all at once, a week’s worth of rainy days washing every last trace of warmth away and leaving a harsh chill in the air.   Harry hasn’t seen Zayn in over a month.

It’s just gone two in the afternoon, and he’s eating breakfast in the living room in his pyjamas, Jeremy Kyle on the telly, when Niall plops down on the sofa beside him.

“Haz, have you heard about this?”  Niall’s got his phone in his hand, is scrolling through what looks to be a news article.

“Wha –?” Harry attempts through a mouthful of Weetabix.  

“Remember those sightings a few months back?  The bloke with wings?  Apparently someone has seen him again,”  Niall says, fingers working furiously over his phone.  “S’all over Twitter.”

Harry drops his spoon.

“What do you reckon, then?”  Niall asks, tearing his head away from the screen.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Harry replies.

 

* * *

 

_Saw you on the internet today._

_I’m so upset I could scream._

_I just want you to come back._

_Please._

* * *

 

_Soon._

 

Harry gets the text while he’s at work.  He feels his heart fall through his stomach at the word.  _Soon._  

“Harold, will you fetch me a cuppa?”  Nick calls from the studio.

“I –” Harry’s voice is thick, and he clears his throat.  “Yeah, just a mo.”

 

* * *

 

When Harry walks into his bedroom that evening to find Zayn sitting on the bed, head down, he nearly turns right back around and walks out.  Zayn looks up at him, eyes wide.  “Hi,” is all he says.

“Hi?” Harry is fuming. “Hi?!  You leave for six bloody weeks, no bloody trace of you anywhere, and all I get is a ‘hi’!?”  He’s shaking, his hands clenched into fists, hot tears springing to his eyes and blurring his vision. 

 Zayn shuts his eyes, lets out a heavy sigh.  “I’m so sorry, Haz.”

“You know what? I don’t even care about the – the fucking wings, alright? Although that was a nice shock, cheers for that, but that’s not what this is about, alright?” He’s pacing the room now, all of the hurt and anger and frustration flowing out of his mouth like a bloody waterfall. He feels helpless to it, feels like he’s got to get it out, make Zayn understand.

“Six bloody weeks, you fucking bastard.  I have been waiting for you for six bloody weeks, worried fucking sick. Worried I’d gone insane, that you weren’t even real.  Worried I’d made the whole fucking thing up, alright?  You –” Harry stops in the middle of the room, looks Zayn in the eye.  “You saved my fucking life, and then you fucked off.  How do you think I’ve been dealing with that?  Because let me just bloody tell you, that’s not an easy thing to recover from.”  He shuts his eyes, rubs his face roughly. 

“I know, It wasn’t – it wasn’t easy for me, either.”  Zayn’s voice is small.

“I just really fucking missed you, okay?”  Harry says, and he knows.  He knows in that moment, the relief of seeing Zayn, of knowing that he’s here, that he’s okay, outweighs anything else. 

“I know.  I’m here now,” Zayn replies, looking up at Harry, his eyes wet. He looks small in his Iron Man pyjama bottoms and stocking feet, Harry thinks, inked wings spread dark and proud across his chest – so small and safe and _there_ , and Harry wants to scream.  Instead, he crosses the room in two long strides, takes Zayn’s face in his hands, and kisses him.

It’s nothing like the soft kiss they’d shared on the balcony the last time they’d seen each other. This one is tempered with anger and relief: lips on lips on teeth on teeth on lips and tongue and tongue, little huffs of air escaping between them as they fight to get closer somehow, to take and to give, more and more and more.

Tears run freely down Harry’s cheeks as he moves his hands from Zayn’s face to his hair, tugging and pushing and pulling in an attempt to somehow anchor himself against the this sudden, fierce flare of emotion.  Zayn’s arms have made their way around Harry’s waist, his nails digging into Harry’s hips as he pulls their bodies together, tangling his leg between Harry’s and slotting their hips together in search of something, everything.

After a few moments, the kiss starts to lose urgency, becomes something quieter, gentler, until Harry feels Zayn pull away, opens his eyes to see Zayn’s own still shut, his mouth hung agape and his lips swollen with use.  He closes his eyes and leans down, resting his forehead against Zayn’s.  The quiet of the room surrounds them, the rattling of the radiator and the harsh sound of their mingled breathing the only noise between them as they hold each other close.  

“You can’t do that to me again,” Harry says softly.  “Okay?”

“Okay,” Zayn replies.

Zayn kisses him on the lips once more, gently this time, before burying his head in the crook of Harry’s neck.  Harry can feel Zayn’s lips along his collarbone as they leave a trail of hot open-mouth kisses slowly upward to his pulse point, and a soft sigh escapes his mouth as he tilts his head back, baring his throat to give Zayn better access. Zayn is thorough in his ministrations, retraces his path, alternating between light scrapes and small nips of teeth, apologies and declarations falling out of his mouth.  Harry feels like he’s been made useless, paralysed by the feeling of having Zayn so close.

Harry’s wearing too many clothes, forces his limbs to move as he breaks away from Zayn for just as long as it takes to pull off his t-shirt.   It gets caught on the bottom of his chin, and he stumbles blindly toward the bed, tripping over his feet.  Zayn grabs Harry’s hips to steady him, runs his fingertips along Harry’s stomach, lets out a quiet giggle as he gives his nipples a quick tweak, before finally helping him pull the shirt all the way off. 

Harry falls unceremoniously onto the mattress and rolls over so that he’s on top of Zayn, their faces mere inches apart.  They lock eyes, and Harry can feel something shift, feels it like a current flowing between their open mouths.  Zayn nods, almost imperceptibly, and Harry dips down and presses his lips to Zayn’s in a fierce kiss.  A choked gasp is torn from his mouth as Zayn tangles their legs together, rolls his hips up to meet Harry’s, the friction maddening even through clothing.

Zayn runs his hands from Harry’s shoulders down his back, slipping them under the hem of Harry’s briefs and cupping his arse, pulling his body closer, closer, closer.  Like that, they build up a rhythm, pushing and pulling, hands touching whatever they can, mouths and bodies moving breathlessly against each other. 

“Please,” he breathes into Zayn’s open mouth.  “Let me see you, need to see you.” 

Zayn answers with a nod and a hard kiss, laying down flat on his back as Harry untangles their legs and scoots down the bed.  He hooks his fingers in the elastic of Zayn’s pyjama bottoms, looks up at Zayn’s face with a small smile, before pulling them down, down, down, and, finally, off.  He peppers Zayn’s exposed skin with small, soft kisses everywhere his mouth he can reach.

“These are going as well, by the way,” Harry grins as he pulls off Zayn’s socks, and Zayn’s lips curve upward.

Zayn grabs Harry by his jeans, hooking a finger in his belt loop and pulling him back up the bed, kissing him messily before pushing him down flat on his back. He makes quick work of Harry’s jeans, unbuttoning them and peeling them off with practiced ease, and mouths at Harry through the cotton of his briefs before starting a trail of kisses up Harry’s stomach, his chest, his chin, his lips. 

 

They’ve got plenty to talk about, but for right now, they have each other. When Harry comes later, with Zayn inside him, he thinks that’s more than enough. 

 

* * *

 

Zayn’s never been good with interviews, always feels awkward and unsure, like he’s saying the wrong thing. When he’d walked into Radio 1 that morning, Nick Grimshaw had presented him with a list of questions, and he was able to choose the ones he felt most comfortable answering, which was also really nice. And at least this time, he’s got Harry’s hand on his knee, a constant, gentle pressure, and he feels a bit better.

“So this morning, we’ve got a very special treat for you.”  Nick looks over at Zayn with a smile, before turning back to the microphone.  “We’ve got Zayn Malik in the studio.  You might have heard of him referred to as London’s Icarus, but he maintains that he just prefers Zayn.” 

“Er, hiya,” Zayn says.

“So tell me, Zayn, and I’m sure we’re all wondering – what made you come out with this?” Nick asks. 

Zayn turns to Harry, who gives him a small smile.  

“I’ve spent my whole life hiding, haven’t I?  But I realised recently, like.  It’s one thing to be outed by someone else, like all of those people on Twitter or whatever who’d post photos of me, but it’s another thing to be proud of who you are and speak up on your own terms, so.  I was tired of hiding, I guess.”

Harry gives his thigh a reassuring squeeze, and he continues.

“I think, like.  When you’re a bit different, like me, it’s really easy to just pretend that it doesn’t exist, to isolate yourself or only, like, present the parts of you that are fit for the public. But, like – I reckon it’s more important to find a balance?  Keeping my wings hidden for so long was such a painful thing for me, both mentally and physically. It’s taxing.”

“What’s the general reaction been since you’ve gone public?”

“Well, it’s been … mixed, really.  I think at first, people tried to label me a superhero?  But it’s not like that, really.  I’ve only saved someone once and it was – ”  He turns away from the microphone, clears his throat.  “Yeah, but erm.  I’m just a bloke with wings, if I’m honest.  I have had a lot of e-mails from, like, scientists, though?  Who want to figure out more about my condition, which. I’m not sure how keen I am on that, but we’ll see.  And I’ve got a few fan pages, as well, which is quite cool, even if I don’t really understand why.”

“And you’re seeing someone right now, aren’t you?  What does your partner think about your wings?”

“He loves them, because they’re part of who I am.  I met him before he knew about the wings, and I’m so lucky that he accepts me fully, trusts me to do what I think is best, so.   That’s really helpful for me. Sometimes he makes me fly him home from work instead of taking the tube, the lazy arse,” he says, a smile audible in his words. 

Harry grins, shakes his head.  

“I think I’d take advantage of that, too, if I’m honest,” Nick replies with a laugh. “So, like – potentially a silly question, but do you still take airplanes when you go abroad?" 

Zayn laughs. “I’ve actually never been on a plane? I don’t even have a passport. My boyfriend’s been pestering me about it for ages.  But yeah, I’d definitely take a plane.  Flying for that long would get tiring, I reckon.  Not too keen on trying it, if I’m honest.”

“I’m sure border control units all over the world are very pleased to hear that answer. We’ve got just a minute before we go on break – is there anything else you want to share?”

Zayn thinks for a bit before he replies.  “Just – my wings are part of who I am?  Like, I’m just a regular bloke, really.  I like comic books and my mum’s samosas, and I can fly.  I think my biggest piece of advice is this: please don’t be afraid of who you are, of what you can do.  Celebrate your differences, if you can.  You’ll be better for it.”

“That’s brilliant, thank you so much for coming in today, Zayn.”

“No worries, mate.  Cheers for having me.”

 

* * *

 

They’re on the roof again, just the two of them. 

“What do you reckon, then?” Zayn asks, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s lips.

"Dunno,” Harry replies with a smile.  “Niall said something about pints at the Birdcage tonight?” 

Zayn hums into Harry’s mouth.  “Mmm, I’ll consider it.”

Harry smiles and kisses him.  It’s not been easy, this whole thing.  Zayn still disappears on occasion, but he’s getting better about warning Harry before he goes. And Harry’s gotten better with his worrying, although not by much, but.

 

Right now– right here, on the rooftop of their tower block in Bethnal Green – with Zayn at his side, Harry feels like he’s flying. 

 

 


End file.
